Meeting the Parents

How a little ole gal from Little Rock got on with a very English family

“This is so fucking weird!” I exclaimed from the back seat of an old-school gray Jaguar XJS, as my boyfriend’s father steered us through central London, ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD!  I immediately felt shame, then became defensive.  I thought,  “What have I done?? Good girls don’t say the f-word in front of their boyfriend’s father! What’s he going to think of me NOW?  Well, he should be grateful I didn’t say c-word, like they do in Madrid ALL THE TIME! I do have some sense of self-control!”

I slinked back into the backseat as my boyfriend said “Dear, we’re not in Madrid now. Remember people understand English here.”  My face turned red, as tears threatened to fall down my cheeks. He would later tell me that his father had merely raised an eyebrow as he kept on driving – so very English of him. His father never mentioned this later, never alluded to it and from henceforth pretended it never happened.  Perhaps he was not surprised at my American brashness since he was used to it, having worked for an American company for decades.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, this English driver would one day become my father-in-law and to this day, I am grateful for his silence and discretion that had left me with a modicum of dignity.  Although a swear word, in many cases, is just what needs saying,  I never swore in front of my boyfriend’s parents again, and that’s quite a feat, since we’ve now been married for 40 years!

My boyfriend and I had flown on Christmas eve from Madrid into Gatwick Airport, having very recently met at a language academy where we both were working.  Ours was a young love or was it lust??  It’s hard to tell in those early days and he had invited me home to spend Christmas with his family.  I had always spent Christmas at my home in Arkansas and this one would be the first of many Christmases that I would no longer do so.  

I kept silent for the rest of the hour and a half journey.  I refused to embarrass myself again or give anyone any reason to think me an ignorant country bumpkin!  As we reached Digswell, the hamlet where my boyfriend grew up, I thought to myself “Dang it!  This is not London!  This is some backwoods, Podunk, itty bitty, rural English town that will be sooooo boring. Why did I agree to come HERE for Christmas???” As we got out of the car and walked towards his house, I expressed these concerns, quietly, of course, so as not to offend his parents, and he just laughed.  Little did I know that a train, just a 5-minute walk from his home, could carry us into London in a matter of 30 minutes.  I took a deep breath and calmed down.  I girded my loins in preparation of meeting the parents.  Aren’t all young women nervous the first time they meet their beloved’s folks?? Well, I certainly was but I tried to act very grown-up and cosmopolitan.

My boyfriend’s mum greeted us at the door, as did his brother, sister-in-law and their small son. I grew to adore his brother and sister-in-law as close friends and allies in the family and their 2-year-old son, whom I renamed Spike, due to the way his hair stuck up off his forehead, soon wheedled his way deep into my heart. Even now, 40 years later, I have a big soft spot for him.  His mum took our coats and ushered us into her very red-tiled kitchen where she offered homemade sausage rolls (which weren’t homemade, I later learned – clever woman) and a glass of wine. She was used to Americans, their forward nature, their insistence on giving big hugs to strangers and their loud, brash voices.   I grew up in a family of loud, extroverted huggers who showed their affections to others with big hugs and pats on the back.  She gave hugs by grasping the shoulders, to allow for keeping a bit of distance between the two parties, then squeezing them, followed by a continental kiss or two on the cheek and that was that.  There was no lingering in a hug, no close body contact, no patting, no in-your-face closeness.  The first time she and her husband greeted me, I felt somehow rejected by the lack of physical contact. Over the years, I have come to accept this, realising that my way of greeting others could be misconstrued as a bit too much, too soon, too personal.  I get my hug fix from my husband and children, whom I have trained up in the art of hug giving! 

My boyfriend then whisked me off to the White Horse pub in Burnham Green to meet up with his old school mates, where we stayed until it closed. The pub was very oldy-worldy, possibly older than the US constitution.  There was a lot of reminiscing about the old school days and I mainly listened and drank wine while they caught up on what had been going on since they last had seen each other. I was asked all sorts of questions about where I was from, how did we meet, what was it like living in Europe. Everyone said I was crazy to want to live anywhere but the US and gushed about how much they all loved my Arkansan accent, frequently asking to read something like the menu, just to hear me speak.  I did not mind all these questions.  It showed they were interested and cared.  When I eventually married the boyfriend and moved to England, I would be asked these same questions over and over again for 30 years.  But that’s ok.  I’m the odd woman out in this neck of the woods but am never treated like a stranger. 

Surprisingly, I woke up clear headed on Christmas day, considering the amount of wine I, we all, had consumed the evening before. Coffee or tea and toast were on the ‘help yourself’ breakfast menu.  My boyfriend’s mum had already begun prepping for Christmas lunch hours ago. She would only prepare 10 more such meals and I was only able to get to know her for a fraction of those years, having lived in the US for the first 10 years of our marriage. She died of cancer 3 months after we moved back to the UK.  To this day, I feel the sting of this lack and wish she were here to see her great-grandchildren, our two grandchildren. But I do remember her being great fun, her having a wicked sense of humour and her being a great tennis player and golfer.  Oh, and she really was an ace in the kitchen. 

We ate about 1:30 pm because we had to finish by 3 pm so we could watch Queen Elizabeth II give the Christmas Day speech.  I would grow to love and admire our Queen.  She showed the Commonwealth, nay the world, what it takes to be a woman in charge - the power, dignity, sacrifice, stamina, perseverance, intelligence, self-control, compassion, passion, savvy and grit.   She went on to serve her people for 70 years and 214 days, the longest of any British monarch, and died on 8 September 2022.   But, of course, I did not know all this in 1983.  I only knew that she was a powerhouse of a woman, one to watch.

So before watching the annual Queen’s speech, we had the traditional Christmas lunch.  What was on the menu, you may ask? It all looked suspiciously like a Thanksgiving meal but with an English twist, or so I thought at the time.  There was turkey and ham, “boiled to-an-inch-of-their-lives” broccoli and carrots and peas, mashed potatoes, roast potatoes and parsnips, and very soft Brussel sprouts, which tasted like dirt.  A Yorkshire pudding adorned the plate and brown gravy was poured over everything. This was all dished up by the host and the consumer had no choice in the matter as to what or how much of anything she or he received.  I am not a picky eater but having been presented with a plateful of food covered in squidgy veg and brown liquid, I was hesitant to try it all out.  

But I did, because I was a good girl and could not embarrass myself again.  We lifted our wine glasses for a toast to the dear and wonderful Queen Elizabeth II, pulled the Christmas crackers, placed the paper crowns on our heads, read out the jokes in the crackers and then began to eat.  I hesitated but was pleasantly surprised as to how delicious it all was, especially the roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. I was not keen on the Brussel sprouts and besides they give you bad gas, which is not something you want when your romance is in its nascence. Traditional Christmas pudding was on offer as were trifle and hot mince pies with custard.   I tried the mince pies and trifle and found these to be very tasty.

Having finished the meal, I carried my wine glass  as we all made our way to watch the Queen’s speech at 3:00 pm sharp.  Then, as tradition would have it, at 3:15 pm, we watched a James Bond film on one of the 4 tv channels available at the time.  It was “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service”, with George Lazenby as 007.  The day morphed into the evening as we drank more wine – it seemed we spent an awful lot of time with glasses of wine on the go! - and dined on turkey or ham sandwiches with pickle and tomato chutney and salt and vinegar crisps. I was so stuffed and squiffy by the time I waddled off to bed, I honestly cannot remember how I made it down the stairs to the guest bedroom.

I loved that first Christmas in England. I was with the boy I loved, his accepting and generous friends and kind and thoughtful family. Much has happened since the Christmas of 1983 as, of course, it always does in families and the passing of time.  My father- and mother-in-law have since passed away as has my brother-in-law. Spike is a grown man, has two sisters and they all have children of their own.  Those friends I met in the White Horse are still our great friends to this day.  They are just as kind and funny and accepting as they were back then.  These British Christmas traditions would become mine, even though, at the time, it all felt weird and very foreign. More importantly, I, a foreigner,  had been made to feel welcomed in a well-established English family at a time when my family was far, far away.  I think that is beautiful.